Singing in the Rain!

Who would have thought that someone living in Rochester NY - or for that matter anywhere in the frozen Northeast - would need an umbrella in the middle of January when winter has already set in? I've heard of January thaws, but this is ridiculous!

I woke to the steady drumming of rain - yes, rain - on the green grass. No snow in sight, the leftover grass of summer lay flat against the soggy precipitation. Sugar is dismayed at the lack of the snow she so loves and wanders back and forth snuffling the ground for some hint of what has happened to make it disappear.

She and I head for a long walk down the drive clear to the far corner of the apartment complex, I with my umbrella enclosing me in a dry bubble, she shaking her fur coat against the penetration of water. Birds are singing - I clearly hear sparrows, phoebes and jays. One would think it was spring. I can almost smell Easter in the air.

I recall one particularly interesting Easter sunrise service where the weather was much as it is today. A handful of the frozen faithful stood huddled in an ancient cemetery, our umbrellas shielding us from the downpour while daffodils nodded unruffled here and there about the grounds. Weathered and cracked gravestones whose information had long ago been worn to a nub by rain and snow were unmoved at our discomfort, wisely knowing that these seasons come and go.

My father was reading Scripture about Christ arising from the dead. Then he turned on a new fangled little cassette recorder and the bleary watery tones of a piano floated about us. We juggled umbrellas and printed programs, grasping for the words to the sort of familiar hymn and mumbled the music as best we could through purple lips and shaking teeth.

I was attired in my thin new Easter dress and coat, no match for the cold and wet weather. My new white patent leather shoes were caked with mud and I shivered uncontrollably, longing for the warmth of the fellowship hall where even as we paid homage to Christ, a hired cook was flipping golden brown pancakes and turning sizzling sausages on his hot griddle and the Ladies Aid Society were preparing the coffee and hot chocolate.

Unperturbed, the birds sang cheerily in that cemetery, announcing the soon arrival of spring while my fingers turned numb. Dad's mini-meditation seemed to go on forever, a painful delay to my sad estate being remedied.

I always felt it my duty to support my Father in his pastoral duties. I was determined to be there for all his services come what may, even though back then I hardly understood what he talked about. I don't know why I felt that way, I just did. As I grew older, I came to appreciate his sermons - surely he had improved over time!

Now, I picture him in heaven happily discussing theology with all his favorite preachers of centuries past, realizing that he knows for certain what it all means. I am grateful for the discomfort of that morning because it provides me a memory hook on which to hang my Father's activities, to know how he touched the lives of others, to be comforted by his presence in my own life.

Even on a rainy January morning, it is good to embrace the memories of his life and be thankful. I have been quietly humming Christ the Lord is Risen Today, Alleluia. I reach the far corner away from the buildings, and I burst forth in song right out loud, cavorting about like Fred Astaire singing in the rain the glorious truth that since Christ is risen, I will see Dad again. Despite the dead of winter in which I am living.